Hinton
06-01-2007, 06:41 PM
After digging around, I finally managed to find the back-up disk that has some of my short stories on it (as well as a novel that I was once working on), so I thought I would start posting some.
I'll start with this one and maybe post another in a week or so.
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There was something about her that Daupin found irresistible; a certain mystique that added to her beauty, making her even more attractive.
He sat at the bar in the tavern, watching her play a game that he had heard of in the Northern Territories. The object of the game, as far as he could tell, was to put colored balls, either black or white, into the six pockets around the edge of the table before your opponent. They used long sticks to hit a neutral purple ball that in turn hit the colored balls. He wasn’t sure what it was called, but he did enjoy watching her play.
He watched with a small, satisfactory smile on his face as she leaned over the table to play her turn, her sleeveless black tunic riding short enough for him to see the backs of her thighs. Her skin was a dark tan, her hair as black as a raven’s wing and cut unusually short; if it hadn’t been for her delicate, painted face and voluptuous breasts, he could have mistaken her for a young man.
The stick she used was a dark wood and carved into the shape of a snake, the tail being the end she used to hit the purple ball. It was taller than she was, but she used it expertly and quickly dispatched the rest of the black balls, winning the game. Her opponent threw two coins onto the table and unhappily walked away. She bent over to retrieve the coins and when she stood, Daupin noticed a small tattoo on the back of her neck in the shape of a beetle.
“You play well,” he said as she took the empty seat next to him.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, a smile lighting up her features. Her voice was slightly demure, but coyness lurked just beneath the surface. Her green eyes seemed to not only look at him, but into him.
Daupin firmly believed that true love and love at first sight was for storybooks and fools; seeing this woman, however, he was quickly re-thinking that philosophy.
“May I buy you a glass of wine, milady?” She nodded and he ordered. “I must admit,” he said after the arrived, “that I do not understand this game you play.”
She smiled over the rim of her glass. “It is called ‘vradra’.” She looked over her shoulder at the table, and when she spoke, her voice had a wistfulness to it. “It was invented long ago, but it has changed since then.” She smiled at him. “Would you care to learn?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid I would look like a fool. You seem quite skillful.”
“Come, good sir, and I shall teach you.” The subtle coyness was back. “I promise I shall be gentle.”
Over the next few hours, she taught him the basics of the game. He found that it wasn’t as difficult as he had first thought. All that was required was a good eye, concentration, and a little luck. He never won a single game, but he didn’t care. As long as she was close to him, he didn’t care about anything.
He told her of his adventures over the last few years since he had followed in his brother’s footsteps and left home, seeking a better life that could be had in Neyar. Whenever he asked about her or where she was from, she would brush against him and change the subject.
As the last of the patrons were leaving, she stepped close to him and said, “Come up to my room.” Any thought he had of declining quickly disappeared as she pressed her body against his.
As she led him upstairs, he stopped her. “Excuse me, milady, but I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled as she turned. “Marta.”
Their lovemaking that night was fierce and passionate. They would stop, drink some wine and talk, then resume. To Daupin, life could not get much better.
Later, as she lay sleeping on top of him, he listened to her breathing, happiness filling his being. He began thinking that maybe he would settle down; she might even accept his proposal to marry when he asked. The only thing that was ruining this perfect night was the headache that had started to form behind his eyes, making it hard to stay still. He tried to move without waking her, thinking that he was lying on the pillow wrong. He shut his eyes tight, willing the pain to go away. When he opened his eyes, he saw the dagger in her hand, aimed at his chest. He had only a moment to wonder how she had retrieved it without his knowledge before she drove into him.
He tried to sit up, but her hand forced him back down. He fell back, blood running out of him onto the bed as she moved off of him. His final thought was that he should have known better than to trust a total stranger, no matter how beautiful.
When he awoke, he sat up and clutched his chest. It had been a dream; it must have been a dream. Then his fingers touched the scar on his chest where the dagger had entered and he felt a dull pain there.
He looked around the room. His shirt and pants were still in the corner; his sword still in its sheath and leaning against the wall by the door. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. His head snapped up as the door opened.
“Good morning, Daupin,” Marta said cheerily as she entered, a tray with food and milk supported by one arm. “Did you sleep well?”
“Excuse me-“ he began.
“Shhh. You had a hard night and you need to eat to replenish your strength.” She sat the tray beside him on the bed. He was surprised to find that he was indeed very hungry, quickly eating the eggs, sausages, and toast.
When he finished, he asked the question. “What happened last night?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, took one of his hands in hers, and smiled. “You died, Daupin.”
He felt breakfast trying to come back up and swallowed hard. “Did you…kill me?”
“Yes I did.”
He jerked his hand from hers. “Why? Why did you kill me? And how am I still alive?”
“I know it’s very confusing; it always is at first.”
He sucked in a breath. “You…you’re one of the undead; a vampire!” He tried to back away from her, but had no place to go.
She looked at him seriously for a moment and then burst out laughing.
“I do not find this a laughing matter,” he said.
She brought her laughter under control. “I do apologize. I am not a vampire; they only exist in legends and storybooks.”
“But I died and now I live.”
“True; but did I bite you? Did I suck the blood from your body?”
“No,” he said slowly, not sure if she was making fun of him or not, “but how did you kill and then resurrect me? Are you a healer of some kind? A god?”
She quiet for a moment, then asked, “Daupin, how old am I?”
“You never told me.”
“Then guess.”
He studied her face. “I would say in your thirties.”
“I am eight hundred, forty-seven years old.” She paused and then chuckled, a trace of sorrow in it. “I can’t remember when my birthday is, so that’s a rough guess.”
“You are not serious.”
“When I was a child,” she said as she turned and faced the wall, “my entire village was destroyed. My family, my friends, all of them murdered in front of my eyes. I nearly died myself. After that, I became obsessed with finding a way to prolong life - namely mine.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I discovered the secret of immortality; a way to have eternal life.
“Last night, I put a substance in your wine that I spent years perfecting that will grant you a kind of immortality if you are careful. From now on, whenever you die, my life is prolonged.”
Daupin closed his eyes, not understanding and unsure if he wanted to.
“According to the stories,” she continued, “a vampire draws life from the life force of mortals; from the life in their blood. I draw life from the force of your death. I have no wish to permanently kill you.” She smiled. “You should feel honored; I choose only the strongest and most virile. Adventurers and treasure seekers like yourself are the best since those in your profession do have a tendency to have short life spans.
“You see, if I were to choose, say, the barkeep downstairs, then his chances of being in constant danger would very slim. You, Daupin, yearn to be placed in danger and face death on an almost daily basis.” A small smile crossed her face as she reached out to touch him.
His hand moved in a flash, grabbed her, and threw her to the floor. In one motion, he leapt from the bed and grabbed his sword, the blade coming free from the sheath effortlessly. When Marta stood up, she turned. The point of the sword was even with her chest.
“Daupin, I will not kill you again unless you force me to. I had to do it so that you would understand when you die and then return to find yourself alive again.” She paused. “I really do care for you, Daupin.”
“Save your lies woman.”
She took a step forward and the tip of the sword pierced her tunic; the next step brought the blade into her chest. Daupin looked on, part of him feeling horror at what was happening, part of him feeling triumph. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Pain etched her face and the muscles of her neck stood out, but her eyes never left his.
“I…can not…die,” Marta said through clenched teeth. “You, and countless others all over this world, give me life when you die.”
Daupin pulled the sword free, her blood running down the blade. He brought the blade up, intending to cut her head off, but she stepped in close to him, her face an inch away from his.
“Listen to me very carefully.” Her breath was hot on his face. “I. Can. Not. Die.”
He turned his back to her. In one smooth motion, he spun the sword in his hands and plunged the blade downwards into his abdomen. As it entered, he pulled the sword to one side, widening the wound. He fell on his side, the pain unbearable.
“You idiot,” Marta said as she knelt down beside him. He could feel death coming quickly. “You will not stay dead from this. You must realize that you will not die for a very long time and save yourself this needless pain.”
When Daupin awoke once again, Marta was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes filled with concern. “Is the pain bad?” she asked.
He nodded.
“That, unfortunately, I can not stop.” She stood, grabbed her stick from the corner, and walked to the door. “I am leaving now.”
“You are not going to draw more life from me?”
She smiled and shook her. “It does not matter where you are or where I am; we are forever linked.”
He sat up and grimaced. The wound on his stomach had turned to a scar, but the pain under it was intense. “What if I locked myself away and never took the chance on dying?”
“You would still die of old age one day. Granted, it would be the last time you ever…contributed….to me, but you will at least once more.”
His eyes went to his sword in the corner, again in its sheath. When he looked back at Marta, he saw that she too was looking at the sword.
“It’s a beautiful sword,” she said. “Was it your father’s?”
“May the Gods curse you,” he spat.
“There are no gods, Daupin. Even if there were, they would care little for my affairs.” As she turned to the door, he jumped from the bed and stopped her from leaving.
“Tell me how to undo this.”
“You can not. This will last until you finally die a hundred years from now. When that occurs, you will be free.”
He hand reached for his sword, but she brought her stick down on his wrist, stopping him. He grabbed the stick, pulled it from her grasp, and drove the tail end into her chest.
She looked down and shook her head. When her eyes met his, she was smiling at him as though he were a simpleton. “You really must stop doing this. It won’t kill me; it just annoys me. I have already told you that I am not a vampire, so the whole wooden stake through the heart thing will not work.” She looked down. “I really liked this stick, too.” She grabbed the end that protruded from her chest and snapped it off. Daupin moved towards her, his hands out, ready to choke her to death if necessary. She flipped the piece of wood around and drove it into his neck.
“You do not understand, Daupin,” she said, holding onto the stick to keep him from falling to the floor. His eyes were at the same level as hers and anger flashed in them. The world began to turn gray around him. “I have given you a life that will span a century, but you insist on repeatedly attacking me. I know you are upset, but I have no time for this foolishness.” She released her hold on the stick and he fell to the floor.
Marta removed the remaining piece of the stick from her chest and dropped it to the floor beside him. She never looked back as she left the room. Daupin moaned feebly as he died a third time.
When he lived again, he was still on the floor, but the wood that had been in his neck now lay on the floor beside him. Perhaps, he thought, she came back and removed it. He sat up and looked around the room, but there was no sign of her.
He stood up and then quickly sat down on the bed as a wave of dizziness hit him. It didn’t surprise him; he had died three times in one day and he felt every wound. He touched the areas that ached, not really surprised that the scars were rapidly healing.
When he felt ready, he dressed. As he did so, he wondered how he could stop her, knowing that there had to be a way. He tied his sheath to his belt, shouldered his pack, and headed for the door, but quickly stopped.
Blood was everywhere: on the bed, the floor, the walls. He was concerned about what he would tell the innkeeper, then realized that the room had been Marta’s; nobody had to know he had stayed here. He smiled when he pictured Marta trying to explain to the authorities about all the blood in her room.
In the tavern, he asked careful questions about Marta, but had no results in getting the information he needed. Some remembered her, but not where she came from or where she was going. After several hours, he gave up and walked outside, breathing in the crisp night air.
He would find her and stop her. The tattoo on the back of her neck had to mean something, perhaps a tribal insignia. First, though, he had to find a way to stop her. Confronting her without that information would be useless. He resolved to search for that answer.
After all, he had a hundred years.
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Please feel free to comment on this if you want.
I'll start with this one and maybe post another in a week or so.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was something about her that Daupin found irresistible; a certain mystique that added to her beauty, making her even more attractive.
He sat at the bar in the tavern, watching her play a game that he had heard of in the Northern Territories. The object of the game, as far as he could tell, was to put colored balls, either black or white, into the six pockets around the edge of the table before your opponent. They used long sticks to hit a neutral purple ball that in turn hit the colored balls. He wasn’t sure what it was called, but he did enjoy watching her play.
He watched with a small, satisfactory smile on his face as she leaned over the table to play her turn, her sleeveless black tunic riding short enough for him to see the backs of her thighs. Her skin was a dark tan, her hair as black as a raven’s wing and cut unusually short; if it hadn’t been for her delicate, painted face and voluptuous breasts, he could have mistaken her for a young man.
The stick she used was a dark wood and carved into the shape of a snake, the tail being the end she used to hit the purple ball. It was taller than she was, but she used it expertly and quickly dispatched the rest of the black balls, winning the game. Her opponent threw two coins onto the table and unhappily walked away. She bent over to retrieve the coins and when she stood, Daupin noticed a small tattoo on the back of her neck in the shape of a beetle.
“You play well,” he said as she took the empty seat next to him.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, a smile lighting up her features. Her voice was slightly demure, but coyness lurked just beneath the surface. Her green eyes seemed to not only look at him, but into him.
Daupin firmly believed that true love and love at first sight was for storybooks and fools; seeing this woman, however, he was quickly re-thinking that philosophy.
“May I buy you a glass of wine, milady?” She nodded and he ordered. “I must admit,” he said after the arrived, “that I do not understand this game you play.”
She smiled over the rim of her glass. “It is called ‘vradra’.” She looked over her shoulder at the table, and when she spoke, her voice had a wistfulness to it. “It was invented long ago, but it has changed since then.” She smiled at him. “Would you care to learn?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid I would look like a fool. You seem quite skillful.”
“Come, good sir, and I shall teach you.” The subtle coyness was back. “I promise I shall be gentle.”
Over the next few hours, she taught him the basics of the game. He found that it wasn’t as difficult as he had first thought. All that was required was a good eye, concentration, and a little luck. He never won a single game, but he didn’t care. As long as she was close to him, he didn’t care about anything.
He told her of his adventures over the last few years since he had followed in his brother’s footsteps and left home, seeking a better life that could be had in Neyar. Whenever he asked about her or where she was from, she would brush against him and change the subject.
As the last of the patrons were leaving, she stepped close to him and said, “Come up to my room.” Any thought he had of declining quickly disappeared as she pressed her body against his.
As she led him upstairs, he stopped her. “Excuse me, milady, but I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled as she turned. “Marta.”
Their lovemaking that night was fierce and passionate. They would stop, drink some wine and talk, then resume. To Daupin, life could not get much better.
Later, as she lay sleeping on top of him, he listened to her breathing, happiness filling his being. He began thinking that maybe he would settle down; she might even accept his proposal to marry when he asked. The only thing that was ruining this perfect night was the headache that had started to form behind his eyes, making it hard to stay still. He tried to move without waking her, thinking that he was lying on the pillow wrong. He shut his eyes tight, willing the pain to go away. When he opened his eyes, he saw the dagger in her hand, aimed at his chest. He had only a moment to wonder how she had retrieved it without his knowledge before she drove into him.
He tried to sit up, but her hand forced him back down. He fell back, blood running out of him onto the bed as she moved off of him. His final thought was that he should have known better than to trust a total stranger, no matter how beautiful.
When he awoke, he sat up and clutched his chest. It had been a dream; it must have been a dream. Then his fingers touched the scar on his chest where the dagger had entered and he felt a dull pain there.
He looked around the room. His shirt and pants were still in the corner; his sword still in its sheath and leaning against the wall by the door. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. His head snapped up as the door opened.
“Good morning, Daupin,” Marta said cheerily as she entered, a tray with food and milk supported by one arm. “Did you sleep well?”
“Excuse me-“ he began.
“Shhh. You had a hard night and you need to eat to replenish your strength.” She sat the tray beside him on the bed. He was surprised to find that he was indeed very hungry, quickly eating the eggs, sausages, and toast.
When he finished, he asked the question. “What happened last night?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, took one of his hands in hers, and smiled. “You died, Daupin.”
He felt breakfast trying to come back up and swallowed hard. “Did you…kill me?”
“Yes I did.”
He jerked his hand from hers. “Why? Why did you kill me? And how am I still alive?”
“I know it’s very confusing; it always is at first.”
He sucked in a breath. “You…you’re one of the undead; a vampire!” He tried to back away from her, but had no place to go.
She looked at him seriously for a moment and then burst out laughing.
“I do not find this a laughing matter,” he said.
She brought her laughter under control. “I do apologize. I am not a vampire; they only exist in legends and storybooks.”
“But I died and now I live.”
“True; but did I bite you? Did I suck the blood from your body?”
“No,” he said slowly, not sure if she was making fun of him or not, “but how did you kill and then resurrect me? Are you a healer of some kind? A god?”
She quiet for a moment, then asked, “Daupin, how old am I?”
“You never told me.”
“Then guess.”
He studied her face. “I would say in your thirties.”
“I am eight hundred, forty-seven years old.” She paused and then chuckled, a trace of sorrow in it. “I can’t remember when my birthday is, so that’s a rough guess.”
“You are not serious.”
“When I was a child,” she said as she turned and faced the wall, “my entire village was destroyed. My family, my friends, all of them murdered in front of my eyes. I nearly died myself. After that, I became obsessed with finding a way to prolong life - namely mine.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I discovered the secret of immortality; a way to have eternal life.
“Last night, I put a substance in your wine that I spent years perfecting that will grant you a kind of immortality if you are careful. From now on, whenever you die, my life is prolonged.”
Daupin closed his eyes, not understanding and unsure if he wanted to.
“According to the stories,” she continued, “a vampire draws life from the life force of mortals; from the life in their blood. I draw life from the force of your death. I have no wish to permanently kill you.” She smiled. “You should feel honored; I choose only the strongest and most virile. Adventurers and treasure seekers like yourself are the best since those in your profession do have a tendency to have short life spans.
“You see, if I were to choose, say, the barkeep downstairs, then his chances of being in constant danger would very slim. You, Daupin, yearn to be placed in danger and face death on an almost daily basis.” A small smile crossed her face as she reached out to touch him.
His hand moved in a flash, grabbed her, and threw her to the floor. In one motion, he leapt from the bed and grabbed his sword, the blade coming free from the sheath effortlessly. When Marta stood up, she turned. The point of the sword was even with her chest.
“Daupin, I will not kill you again unless you force me to. I had to do it so that you would understand when you die and then return to find yourself alive again.” She paused. “I really do care for you, Daupin.”
“Save your lies woman.”
She took a step forward and the tip of the sword pierced her tunic; the next step brought the blade into her chest. Daupin looked on, part of him feeling horror at what was happening, part of him feeling triumph. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Pain etched her face and the muscles of her neck stood out, but her eyes never left his.
“I…can not…die,” Marta said through clenched teeth. “You, and countless others all over this world, give me life when you die.”
Daupin pulled the sword free, her blood running down the blade. He brought the blade up, intending to cut her head off, but she stepped in close to him, her face an inch away from his.
“Listen to me very carefully.” Her breath was hot on his face. “I. Can. Not. Die.”
He turned his back to her. In one smooth motion, he spun the sword in his hands and plunged the blade downwards into his abdomen. As it entered, he pulled the sword to one side, widening the wound. He fell on his side, the pain unbearable.
“You idiot,” Marta said as she knelt down beside him. He could feel death coming quickly. “You will not stay dead from this. You must realize that you will not die for a very long time and save yourself this needless pain.”
When Daupin awoke once again, Marta was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes filled with concern. “Is the pain bad?” she asked.
He nodded.
“That, unfortunately, I can not stop.” She stood, grabbed her stick from the corner, and walked to the door. “I am leaving now.”
“You are not going to draw more life from me?”
She smiled and shook her. “It does not matter where you are or where I am; we are forever linked.”
He sat up and grimaced. The wound on his stomach had turned to a scar, but the pain under it was intense. “What if I locked myself away and never took the chance on dying?”
“You would still die of old age one day. Granted, it would be the last time you ever…contributed….to me, but you will at least once more.”
His eyes went to his sword in the corner, again in its sheath. When he looked back at Marta, he saw that she too was looking at the sword.
“It’s a beautiful sword,” she said. “Was it your father’s?”
“May the Gods curse you,” he spat.
“There are no gods, Daupin. Even if there were, they would care little for my affairs.” As she turned to the door, he jumped from the bed and stopped her from leaving.
“Tell me how to undo this.”
“You can not. This will last until you finally die a hundred years from now. When that occurs, you will be free.”
He hand reached for his sword, but she brought her stick down on his wrist, stopping him. He grabbed the stick, pulled it from her grasp, and drove the tail end into her chest.
She looked down and shook her head. When her eyes met his, she was smiling at him as though he were a simpleton. “You really must stop doing this. It won’t kill me; it just annoys me. I have already told you that I am not a vampire, so the whole wooden stake through the heart thing will not work.” She looked down. “I really liked this stick, too.” She grabbed the end that protruded from her chest and snapped it off. Daupin moved towards her, his hands out, ready to choke her to death if necessary. She flipped the piece of wood around and drove it into his neck.
“You do not understand, Daupin,” she said, holding onto the stick to keep him from falling to the floor. His eyes were at the same level as hers and anger flashed in them. The world began to turn gray around him. “I have given you a life that will span a century, but you insist on repeatedly attacking me. I know you are upset, but I have no time for this foolishness.” She released her hold on the stick and he fell to the floor.
Marta removed the remaining piece of the stick from her chest and dropped it to the floor beside him. She never looked back as she left the room. Daupin moaned feebly as he died a third time.
When he lived again, he was still on the floor, but the wood that had been in his neck now lay on the floor beside him. Perhaps, he thought, she came back and removed it. He sat up and looked around the room, but there was no sign of her.
He stood up and then quickly sat down on the bed as a wave of dizziness hit him. It didn’t surprise him; he had died three times in one day and he felt every wound. He touched the areas that ached, not really surprised that the scars were rapidly healing.
When he felt ready, he dressed. As he did so, he wondered how he could stop her, knowing that there had to be a way. He tied his sheath to his belt, shouldered his pack, and headed for the door, but quickly stopped.
Blood was everywhere: on the bed, the floor, the walls. He was concerned about what he would tell the innkeeper, then realized that the room had been Marta’s; nobody had to know he had stayed here. He smiled when he pictured Marta trying to explain to the authorities about all the blood in her room.
In the tavern, he asked careful questions about Marta, but had no results in getting the information he needed. Some remembered her, but not where she came from or where she was going. After several hours, he gave up and walked outside, breathing in the crisp night air.
He would find her and stop her. The tattoo on the back of her neck had to mean something, perhaps a tribal insignia. First, though, he had to find a way to stop her. Confronting her without that information would be useless. He resolved to search for that answer.
After all, he had a hundred years.
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Please feel free to comment on this if you want.